Finding Ourselves
by nicknack22
Summary: Sherlock is back, John is alive, but both bear some scars.  This story explores how they find themselves and one another...sequel to You Were My Life.  Johnlock. Mystrade.
1. Typing, Tension, and Tea

Tap, tap, _tap_, tap, _tap_, tap, tap, tap.

"Gmnph," John moaned and pressed a pillow over his face. It was too bloody early for this, whatever this was.

Tap, _tap_, tap, tap, tap, _tap_, tap, tap.

He pulled the comforter up over his head for good measure. He was comfortably burrowed in a nest of blankets and cushions and sleep. He did not want to move, he didn't want to open his eyes. He had been in such a lovely deep sleep. He tried to go back to that place, forcibly, but…

Tap, tap, _tap_, tap, tap, _tap_, tap, tap.

…he was being pulled inexorably towards consciousness by a mysterious and persistent noise. John grumbled and held the pillow more firmly to muffle the sound, but…

_Tap_.

_Fine bloody fine_, John groaned, _It is apparently time to get up at_…he briefly looked at his watch and decided that whoever was responsible for waking him at seven in the bleeding morning on a Saturday would be punished. Harshly. Of course, there was only one person that could possibly be responsible for doing such a thing.

He threw back the comforter to find Sherlock sitting not four meters away, furiously typing on John's laptop.

"Good morning, John," he said without looking up. The relentless tapping continued as the consulting detective pounded on the keys as if it were his mission to destroy yet another piece of technology, specifically, one that belonged to John.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" he mumbled as he rubbed his hands over his face, trying to wake up a bit. He needed a shave. And tea, tea would be nice.

"Typing. Clearly," Sherlock was apparently deeply engrossed.

John rolled his eyes, "I can see that. Hear it too. _What_ are you typing?"

He waited for a response that was clearly not forthcoming and sighed.

John had slept on the sofa, as he was wont to do since he had come home from the hospital. He desperately wanted to move into the bedroom, but, Sherlock, when he wasn't annoyingly obsessed with writing clandestine missives at the crack of dawn, was committed to acting as John's tyrannical nursemaid and jail keeper, forcing him to remain in a state of convalescence in the sitting room.

The bright side was the Sherlock spent the night with him on the sofa. They were often curled up together, draped across one another, and John was becoming accustomed to waking with his face pressed against Sherlock's collarbone. The bad side was the Sherlock spent the night with him in the sitting room. They both woke with cricks in their necks and Sherlock's sleeping schedule was not that of a normal person, which meant that John was often woken at odd hours by his dulcet tones elucidating the finer points of some case to the skull, various loud bangs of dubious origins for the kitchen, and, of course, the violin music (although, usually John's favorite tunes). To be fair, Sherlock seemed to be _trying_ to be quiet, but he was not consistently quiet by nature, and when he went to his mind palace, all bets were off.

This whole thing could have been resolved if Sherlock allowed John to move his recuperation to the bedroom because then, at least, when Sherlock got a random thought into his head, he could go to the sitting room and the resulting noise would be muffled by doors and pillows and a thick wall of sleep. _Well, _John conceded as he ran his hand through his hair, _hopefully__ it would be toned down a bit_.

For someone who so deeply valued rational analysis, Sherlock had been displaying a remarkable lack of logic and a great deal of stubborn eccentricity. This, paired with his intense dedication to John's continued health, was becoming a bit overwhelming after a week.

John looked at Sherlock and wondered how long he had been awake. He must have been very careful about getting up; John hadn't been woken and the former army doctor was still quite sensitive around his torso (a fact which he was trying to hide, lest Sherlock fall into paroxysms of cossetting). He was getting to be worse than Mrs. Hudson. John wasn't quite sure why that brought a strange sort of smile to his face.

"Sherlock?"

Still no answer, the attack on the key board continued with feverish intensity. John rolled his eyes. _Idiot_. _Well he leaves me no choice then_…He threw the Union Jack pillow. Unfortunately the movement sent a piercing pain down his side and he gasped sharply. The pillow grazed Sherlock's head at the exact same moment that John made his exclamation. He was therefore not sure which had caused the detective to come out of his reverie, but suddenly the intense fixation that Sherlock had hitherto been focusing on the screen came to rest on John.

"John, are you all right?" there was a remarkable amount of concern in the voice.

"Fine." _Here we go_, John thought as he rolled his eyes, trying to play nonchalant.

"Are you quite sure, John?" Sherlock was apparently not taken in. He continued examining John over steepled fingers, "There is sweat on your forehead, your left hand is grasping your torso in a protective gesture, and you are biting your lip in an attit-"

"Can you just maybe not do that as soon as I wake up?" He crinkled his nose; it was too early to be deduced, "Really, just, you know, just, just give me a few minutes."

Sherlock stared at John impassively for a moment, then got up and walked over to the blogger, offering John his pillow. When he didn't take it, Sherlock forced John to lie down, readjusted the comforter, and examined his face closely for a moment. No doubt noticing, in addition to the previous observations, the dilated pupils and flushed cheeks. After making his deductions, he smirked slightly and pressed his mouth to John's. John faintly hummed in his throat; this was a far better good morning than he had thus far received today. He was inclined to forgive the keyboard attack.

Sherlock pulled back, looked into John's eyes, and then said, "I'll just make us some tea."

He bustled off to the kitchen leaving John sofa ridden, sore, flushed, and reflective. This was all new to them. The situation was tentative and being negotiated on a daily basis. There were moments when John wasn't quite sure what they were doing.

Sherlock had "died" and left him alone before returning. Just a few weeks ago John had nearly died from gunshot wounds. These events had served as an impetus for the two of them to finally admit how they felt, and make peace with their emotions…in some ways. But that didn't mean that things were completely settled. John frowned slightly. They had not quite gotten past all of their issues, either, which in certain aspects had intensified.

No matter what Sherlock said, no matter that he hadn't left John's side for a second since he had been shot, no matter that the sociopathic consulting detective had completely laid his soul bare for him, the blogger still had trouble believing that Sherlock would be there when he woke up. He sometimes thought that the consulting detective would get into one of his moods and just wander off never to return. On some level John knew he was being ridiculous, but still…

Sherlock's behavior had gone to an extreme. He seemed to have received a serious shock. He was jumpy, overly-attentive; he was very focused on John most of the time, as if he were afraid that the blogger was on the verge of dropping dead at any minute. _Not the best way to treat someone who literally almost died_, John thought. He was hoping that it would settle down a bit now that he was on the mend, but based on the past week, that didn't seem likely.

John spent a lot of his time (and he had a lot of it these days), wondering what was keeping Sherlock from becoming bored with him, especially now. Taking care of your sick…_blogger_ wasn't the most scintillating task. And there was the great question at this moment, the one with which John had become increasingly preoccupied, as he lay about reading medical texts, being force fed scones with jam, and soup (Mycroft provided the former, Mrs. Hudson the latter, Sherlock was mostly responsible for nearly drowning John in tea every day). He and Sherlock had made declarations, but they had not otherwise acknowledged what any of this meant for them individually or together.

Sherlock had come back into the room, bearing two steaming cups. John frequently wondered (with a mix of curiosity, horror, and fascination) what the hell went on in that consulting detective's head (he also wondered who taught Sherlock that the proper response to physical or emotional turmoil was to make tea. _Probably Lestrade_).

"Thank you," John said, still a bit amazed that Sherlock would serve him tea without any added substances.

Sherlock carefully sipped his own brew, surveying John slowly.

"What were you writing?" John was making small talk in the sitting room, over tea, lovely, they could join Mrs. Hudson and her friends for bridge soon.

Sherlock considered this for a moment, "Notes."

"Notes?"

"Yes," more tea was sipped, no additional explanation was offered.

"About…" John trailed off, waiting. Where was the show-off Sherlock who couldn't shut up for five seconds?

"A case," Sherlock answered briefly. Far too briefly for John's liking.

"I didn't know Lestrade had given you a case," John started.

"He hasn't," Sherlock continued surveying his blogger with an intensity that simultaneously made John want to bask in its glow, blush furiously, and hide his face in some way, lest he unintentionally reveal something he's rather not.

"Why—" John began.

"I told him to wait until you are well," Sherlock said matter-of-factly, but if he had said that he was becoming a Buddhist monk he couldn't have shocked John more. His surprise must have shown on his face because Sherlock smirked and rolled his eyes.

"I'm lost without my blogger, John," He said. John still wasn't quite sure what to make of such pronouncements delivered in the same tone of voice that denounced murders but with a look of such intensity that it fairly drew the air out of the room.

"So then what were you-?"

Sherlock stood suddenly and said, "You should get some rest, John."

John was completely bewildered by the sudden change of topic. _What the bloody hell?_

"I just woke u—"

"Yes, but someone recovering from your type of wounds requires approximately—"

"Sherlock, I'm a doctor I know how many hours of rest I'm meant to get, and how many calories I'm meant to consume and every bloody recovery statistic. I went to medical school," he sighed resignedly, "and whatever I didn't know, you've informed me in the last two weeks. So-"

Sherlock nodded, "Good, I'm going to get milk."

_Jesus, it must be desperate if he's willingly going to Tescos_, John thought.

"Rest, John." And the detective was out the door with a dramatic flourish before John could say another word. He lay back down on his pillows with some choice words about stupid, bloody, stubborn, evasive, geniuses. He wondered vaguely as he drowsed (_damned idiot is right about the sleep_) how they could ever work as partners if they couldn't even talk about what was really bothering them.

_AN:_

_Welcome everyone! Finding ourselves is the sequel to You Were My Life, so if you have checked out that story I suggest you do so. _

_What do you think so far? I honestly hadn't planned on writing/posting this until at least tomorrow (I was focusing on the prequel, Where You Find It), but Sherlock and John wouldn't shut up. They clearly thought it was time to come back. _

_In the next chapter (should be up on Friday): Sherlock gets all introspective while he buys the milk…_

_Thank you for reading. Comments and feedback are always welcome so, please, if you get the chance, leave a review. They make my day and I will respond. :D_


	2. Not an Advantage

The second that Sherlock stepped out onto Baker Street and into the crisp air he turned his collar up against the chill and assumed the mysterious and condescending air that he presented to the world.

_Milk_, he thought disgustedly, as if there were nothing more repulsively _boring_ in the entire world. His whole face involuntarily screwed up in distaste.

_I am going to Tesco to buy __milk_; he supposed he might actually be ill from the sheer tediousness of it.

Sherlock Holmes did not go to Tesco. He did not do the shopping. He did not ever purchase milk. It was beneath him. John could have attested to this, laughing, and reminding whoever had made such a foolish assumption that Sherlock had once called John home from across the city of London in order to send a _text_ message. If you had told John two years ago that Sherlock had gone out to buy milk, he would have laughed uproariously before turning suddenly serious and asking, "No, seriously. Where's he gone?"

But no, now Sherlock was standing in Tesco, buying a carton of milk. _Voluntarily_, of his own free will, under his own power, because they needed milk in 221B. John wanted milk (they were usually out of it because Sherlock had a habit of removing it in his attempts to find spaces for his experiments in the refrigerator, leaving the spoilt remnants for John to find hours later in a fit of pique). So now here he was, the world's only consulting detective, standing in a queue to purchase a mundane grocery item. He looked at the people milling about him and felt nothing but disdain for their sad, boring, mindless, trivial little lives.

But then he realized that he was standing amongst them, and not just observing, but actively participating in activities that they found customary and enjoyable. He wanted tell them all to get out and stop with their incessant, predictable thoughts, problems, and lives. He wanted to leave immediately. Sherlock's face and posture radiated disgust and barely concealed hostility.

Whilst he waited for the cashier to place the milk in a bag, he mused on the reason for his presence here. Why was he in Tescos buying milk? Why was he accepting his purchase and his change without telling the young woman at the register that, yes, her sister _did_ know about the week she spent in Brighton with her brother-in-law? Why was he acting in this most peculiar (inoffensive) way?

Then answer was deceptively simple: John Hamish Watson.

He was buying milk because John wanted it. He was refraining from "traumatizing" the young woman with his observations because if John were here he would not have liked it. He had left the apartment this morning on this _ridiculous_, banal errand because of John. He had nearly destroyed his laptop this morning because of John (he conveniently overlooked the actual ownership of the device). He had told Lestrade to not bother him with a _case_ because of John. Lately, everything circled back around to John, as if all of his thoughts and energies were orbiting around this singular person. It was highly disconcerting.

Caring was a disadvantage. Sherlock had grown up believing this. Emotions were messy, they were illogical. They did no one any good, they did not help you solve a case, or prevent a crime. One had only to look at the state of affairs to confirm that this was true.

Sherlock had faked his own death in order to preserve John's life because he _cared_ for John because he _loved_ John. What had the result of that been? John had survived, but the two of them had been miserable for a year, and, when Sherlock _did_ come back, well, John's initial response had been less than ideal. _Because he had been hurt_, Sherlock reminded himself, as he strode purposefully down the street,_ because __you__ hurt him_.

Their partnership had nearly been destroyed because John could not trust Sherlock, and Sherlock had nearly been driven mad by John's disappointment and unwillingness to forgive him. Just when things were beginning to go back to _normal_ (or the nearest approximation of that description for the world's only consulting detective and his faithful blogger), John had been _shot_ and almost _died _and—Sherlock did not like to remember those moments when he had had his hands pressed down on John's chest to stop the bleeding. He could barely recall anything about waiting in the hospital except that he had lost complete control of the situation, of himself, of everything. He had nearly lost _everything_.

Sherlock's face looked like a storm cloud as he neared 221B Baker Street. His frown was such that he alarmed small children.

Since he had come back, maybe since he had left, maybe since before that, he had paid special attention to John. The army doctor was fascinating, though Sherlock could never precisely determine why (however he had several theories). He would have done whatever necessary for John even before he had "died" for him. Since they had come back together, the feeling had increased exponentially.

"Absence makes the heart grow fonder." _A dull and simple minded expression_, Sherlock mused, _but perhaps correct, in a sense_. Watching John suffering from a distance for over a year had made Sherlock value having John within his sights (and his reach) more than ever before. It had made him hyper aware of his blogger's presence, more concerned for his happiness and well-being. It was why, after all, Sherlock had not forced this issue of their relationship when he had come back. John hadn't wanted it and Sherlock had respected that decision. Instead of issuing orders and dragging John along with him, or tricking him into doing exactly what he wanted (though there had been several moments that he intentionally coaxed and nettled the blogger to observe the results), he had allowed John to set the lead. He owed him that much.

If Sherlock thought that he was out of control during their forced separation, it was nothing compared to how he had _felt_ and behaved since John had nearly died. He lived in a state of constant worry. He was conscious of every single one of John's movements, his every breath. He had observed John before but now he watched him incessantly. Soaking in every detail, deducing what he could, but mostly storing them away on his hard drive. He refused to examine just exactly why he was doing this. If Sherlock had, he would have been forced to see the simple fact that he felt he could never have quite enough of John, and the best thing would be to make sure that his blogger was saved away in case he should ever be lost again, an eventuality that Sherlock did not want to contemplate.

He had awoken that morning from a nightmare in which he was back at St. Bart's, only this time, John did not make it. He had been gazing at John's dead face and shouting, though no one could hear him, when he opened his eyes to find John's breathing tickling his neck and his own arm wrapped protectively around his blogger. It took him a few moments to separate the dream from the reality (something that had not been difficult for him in years), and, once his eyes had adjusted to the darkness, he had stared fixedly at John for several moments. Far longer than he would spend cataloging any other person. The blogger's face was relaxed in sleep (_no war nightmares tonight, then_), one of his hands rested possessively on Sherlock's hip, the other curled protectively across his wounded side (_it was healing well, but still ached a great deal_). His cheek was pillowed on Sherlock's collar, and John's hair tickled the consulting detective's chin. He looked peaceful and un-pained. Seeing him like this, Sherlock was struck with the beauty of it and he felt something very powerful within himself constricting at his heart. It was all very overwhelming and he had gotten up of the sofa as quietly and smoothly as he could (John had clutched at him in his sleep).

He had observed John for a few moments more from a distance. Then he had taken out John's laptop and begun typing. Feverishly. Thinking, listing, it was far less likely to wake John (who needed his rest) than speaking to the skull or himself in the dead of night, as he was want to do (yet another change that John had wrought in his life).

So Sherlock typed and typed and typed until the dawn approached. He was lost in a mind palace that had John at its central point. All of its corridors and secret passages led back to him.

He wanted John to be happy (_obviously_). He wanted John alive (_clearly__ that is essential for his happiness_). He wanted John safe (_plainly, this was another necessity_). Those were the main objectives of his notes. He could not _lose_ John again under any circumstances. Therein lay the conundrum. Sherlock Holmes lived a dangerous life. He had no care for it. It alleviated the boredom that so pervaded the world for ordinary people. John also liked danger, it made him happy. However, it precluded his safety and his life. It was therefore in conflict with two of Sherlock's objectives, as regarded the former army-doctor. Further, if you followed this line of thought to its logical conclusion: John's safety would require Sherlock's absence in order to remove the danger he brought to the blogger's life. This decision, however, would remove any happiness that Sherlock's could hope for, since his life was more or less completely contingent on John's presence. It was all quite contradictory.

Sherlock had been trying to work through all possible situations that could be detrimental to John and their possible solutions. He had constructed a list that enumerated approximately 562 potential scenarios in which John would be negatively affected by one of Sherlock's actions when John had gasped aloud and something whooshed past the detective's head as he turned to look at his blogger.

Sherlock had left under the pretext of buying milk (which they did, in fact, _need_) in order to avoid John's questions about the project on which he had been working. He did not want to disclose his level of preoccupation, nor the fact that most of his findings indicated that John's continued health would be best served by Sherlock's absence.

The consulting detective was relatively sure that he would lead to John's physical demise through continued contact. The best thing to do for his blogger would be to leave him alone, completely. He did not want to admit this to John. He also did not wish to draw unnecessary attention to the fact that he had been completely uncomfortable and off-balance with John since they had confessed their love for one another.

Sherlock did not understand emotions, he did not _want _them. He did not like acknowledging weakness (and he certainly did not care to reveal that he did not know something. But he had no notion of how to be what John wanted and he was at an extreme disadvantage. Sherlock was _different_. The master of deduction could not pinpoint when this transition had happened. It had been so gradual and inexorable that he found himself surprised to realize that even during this short trip out of 221B he had spent the whole time thinking about John, worrying about John, speculating about John. He could hardly stand it. It was exhausting.

Rationally, it would be best for all parties if they went back to the way things were, or if he absented himself from John's life. Then he could go back to solving serial murders, forgetting to buy milk, harassing Mycroft and Lestrade, insulting his clients however he saw fit. Yes, surely that would be ideal for everyone. That was the logical conclusion he reached…

Then he opened the door to the flat and he saw John lying on the sofa. Curled protectively in on himself, hand extended outward, as if reaching for something, eyelids fluttering in sleep, comforter skewed slightly. All thoughts of leaving completely left Sherlock's mind, so did any about reverting to a previous phase of their relationship. He was arrested by John's form by his innocence, by the precious fact that he was alive and well and, however foolishly, _wanted_ to be here. Sherlock dropped the bags and walked over to the sleeping army doctor. He straightened the comforter and gently ran a hand over John's hair, causing him to sigh and smile slightly in his sleep (the detective smirked slightly, filing this response away for later use).

Sherlock stepped back and perched on his own chair staring at John (as he often did when John was lost in dreams of late). He couldn't understand how it was possible to _feel_ so many things at once. It was far too much. He wanted to shut down and ignore it. Trod it out. That had always served him in the past. Now, though…John didn't want him to do that. He didn't want him to leave (literally or metaphorically), but Sherlock wasn't sure how to exist in this state where he expected John to collapse at any moment and felt every emotion that he associated with that idea. Caring was not an advantage, but he couldn't seem to stop.

* * *

><p><em>AN:<em>

_Behold, Chapter 2. I hope that it was worth the wait. Toggling between Where You Find It Sherlock and Finding Ourselves' Sherlock is one of the strangest most interesting experiences ever just fyi. But I digress…what did you think about Sherlock's introspection? His confusions and conclusions? Poor boy is quite unsettled. I would love to hear what you think. _

_As always, thank you to everyone who has read, favorite, followed, and reviewed this story. You guys seriously make my day. I am deeply honored. There will be another chapter of Where You Find It up tomorrow and hopefully a new chapter of this by Tuesday or Wednesday at the latest._

_Please, let me know what you think!_

_Much love. _


	3. Enough Now

John Watson was mad. He was irate, in a damn bloody rage. It all started with a text earlier in the afternoon. John had been given a clean bill of health by his attending physician two days ago, which meant that he was officially free to move about the flat (he used the doctor's note as a trump card when Sherlock attempted to keep him tethered to the sofa). He was celebrating this victory by drinking tea and reading the paper in the kitchen.

His phone beeped, and he looked over at it, expecting to see a message from Sherlock, who had left earlier on some unexplained errand. Instead, what he saw on the screen was this:

**Where are you?-GL**

John tapped his teeth with his tongue and took a breath.

**At home. Where am I meant to be?-JW**

**You and Sherlock were supposed to be here an hour ago. Did you stop on the way?-GL**

John felt annoyed beyond all reason. Sherlock had left him at home on purpose. _What the __hell__ is his problem? _John thought, as he grabbed his coat and keys and bolted out the door, nearly knocking Mrs. Hudson over in the corridor.

He arrived on the crime scene in record time and ducked beneath the caution tape, ignoring the way that his side ached and the cold sweat that beading on his forehead. _This might qualify as the overexertion that your doctor warned you about_, the rational part of his mind thought. The annoyed part told the rational voice to shut the bloody hell up.

He must have looked a right mess to judge by the way that everyone was staring at him. He nearly walked right into Greg, who looked startled and grabbed his shoulder, peering anxiously into his face.

"John, are you all right?" He asked.

"I'm fine," John responded furiously, glancing around with avidity, "Where's Sherlock?"

Lestrade evaluated John with dark, wary eyes, and kept a firm grip on his arm as the blogger wiped his forehead with his sleeve, intent on his mission to find Sherlock.

"He's looking at the body," a line formed between Greg's brows, "Did something happen betwee-?"

"It's _fine_," John pulled his arm away, trying to act normally, but clearly not quite managing it.

"Right," Lestrade said reservedly and he released his hold, stepping back.

"I'll just go in then," John took the stairs as quickly as he could, stewing in his own thoughts, feeling a strong resentment building inside his chest and mind. _Sherlock left me behind __again_, he heard a pounding in his ears, _What the bloody hell is his problem? Does he think I can't care for myself? Does he not __need__ me anymore? Poor, sad John all broken and boring. Sod that!_

When he reached the landing, he could hear Sherlock's crisp, clean, quickly paced voice coming from within the room to his immediate left.

"Do shut up, Anderson," he was saying. John opened the door to find him glaring at the forensics scientist from across the room where he was standing over the corpse of a middle aged woman.

"Ah, Lestrade," the consulting detective turned towards the door, "You're back, perhaps you coul—John."

John had the momentary pleasure of noticing a genuinely surprised expression on Sherlock's face before he quickly covered it up.

"John, I wasn't aware that-"

"Lestrade texted me," John was glaring. Sherlock appeared decidedly uncomfortable, but not half so unsettled as Anderson and the other specialists in the room, who looked as though they would pay money to disappear on the spot. The only one who seemed perfectly at ease was the dead body, and that was not saying much.

Sherlock evaluated John uneasily, not in the way that he had recently, like an overly attentive nursemaid. No, he was assessing John as if the blogger were slightly mad or dangerous and he wasn't quite sure what he would do next.

"I see," Sherlock offered.

John had never heard "punch me in the face" quite so loudly, but he restrained himself from acting on the impulse…barely.

Instead he said in an even (though slightly strained) tone of voice, "Sherlock, can we step out for a moment?" He framed it as a question, though it was anything but. The taller man understood that it was an order rather than a request.

"Of course, John," he acquiesced gallantly, "Just as soon as I've—"

John's eyes were shooting sparks, "_Sherlock_."

The consulting detective glanced back at him and sighed, "Very well. Shall we then?"

John spun on his heel and Sherlock followed, cautioning Anderson to not "make a mess of things" while they were gone.

They ran into a genuinely puzzled Lestrade on the stares, but they didn't stop to talk. The blogger steadfastly ignored Lestrade's "What the hell-?" Sherlock, ironically, was the one who shot an apologetic look back at Greg, as he coasted along in John's wake.

They marched all the way back to 221B in a tense silence. John set a furious pace and could feel himself growing more frustrated and resentful with every step. Sherlock's quietness and general agreeability, coupled with the concerned glances he kept darting at John, did not help soothe the blogger's inner turmoil.

When they had reached the flat, stomped up the stairs (John), and slammed the door behind them (John, again), the consulting detective and the army doctor turned to face one another. The former appeared calm and composed; the latter like a tea kettle on the verge of bubbling over. Sherlock tilted his head to the side and opened his mouth.

"Don't. Say. A. Bloody. Word." John panted. Sherlock's mouth twitched.

"I was just going to ask," _I swear if he asks me how I am I will bloody __murder__ him_, "If we had reached our destination."

"No fucking shit, Sherlock," John spat glaring, and Sherlock's brows went as high as they could go.

"John—" he began in a cautious tone. _It's like we've switched rolls. I've lost my bleeding mind, and he's trying to get __me__ to see reason_. It would have been funny if John hadn't been quite so upset.

"Why the hell didn't you tell me about the case?" he demanded.

Sherlock had opened his mouth, but John forestalled him, "And don't bloody lie about it, Sherlock, or I swear…" He let the threat hang ominously open-ended, primarily because he couldn't quite think of what he would do, other than chip his own knuckles on one of those damnably sharp cheekbones. Judging by the way his eyes narrowed, Sherlock seemed to take it seriously enough.

"I didn't think it was necessary to trouble you…" the response was hesitant.

"Greg asked for _both _of us," John insisted gesturing between them.

Sherlock looked shifty, "He didn't specify—"

John shook his head, "He _did_. You _chose_ to leave me at Baker Street. Why?"

"Because…" Sherlock held his arms out, as if trying to conjure a proper explanation out of thin air.

"Whatever happened to 'needing your blogger'?" John interrogated viciously. Sherlock looked like he had just been slapped.

"I do, Joh-"

But the army-doctor plowed on, relentless, "What? A bloke gets a couple of ruddy bullet holes and he's bloody useless all of a sudden? Can't be bothered to come along with the great bloody Sherlock bloody Holmes?"

The consulting detective had blanched and was fairly gaping at John in shock, which didn't stem the tide of emotion flowing out of the incensed blogger, indeed, it seemed to facilitate it.

"Why did you leave me behind!" suddenly it wasn't about the case anymore, if it ever really had been in the first place, "Why do you _always_ bloody leave me behind? Can't you see that I want to be with you? Can't you bloody _see_ that?"

John's face was red, his side hurt, he was gasping for air. Sherlock stared at him with stormy eyes.

"Of course you can't because you're a bloody machine," that was a low blow, and John knew it but he couldn't stop, "You don't give a bloody damn abou-"

"I didn't want you to be hurt," Sherlock had apparently found his voice again, he reached out and grabbed John's flailing hands and John stared at him, "I cannot allow you to be hurt again, John," the detective's eyes were shining, he looked incredibly vulnerable but determined.

"You sodding _idiot_. What do you think that _you're _doing to me?" he demanded.

"I am _attempting_ to _protect _you," Sherlock returned as if it were completely obvious.

John reversed his grip so that he was the one holding Sherlock's wrists, "I am not going to _break_, Sherlock."

The consulting detective did not look convinced. If anything, he looked more stricken, "I _have_ broken you before, John."

"Goddamn it, Sherlock," he said and he placed one of the detectives hands on his chest over his heart, "I am _here_ and I am not going anywhere. Now, will you sodding stop trying to leave me?"

Sherlock seemed about to say something else, but John had had enough. Knowing that it was probably a bad idea, all he could think about was the fact that for over six bloody months, they had been dancing around this. He couldn't hear another bloody word about it at the moment. He wanted Sherlock here with him, right now. With that in mind, when Sherlock opened his mouth to retort, John reached his spare hand behind Sherlock's head and pulled his face down to meet his own, placing his mouth over the consulting detective's, and swallowing whatever he had been about to say.

Sherlock seemed surprised and resistant at first, but as their tongues battled for dominance, John felt Sherlock's arms reach up behind him, gripping his jumper and pulling him closer. They stumbled against the nearest wall and John hissed. Sherlock pulled back, icy eyes so strangely dark, "John are you—?" he began.

"Sherlock, for once in your life, _shut up_," John said and pressed their mouths together as they stumbled towards the bedroom leaving a trail of clothing in their wake.

* * *

><p><em>AN:<em>

_Welcome to Chapter 3. What did you think? In the issue of full disclosure John Watson hijacked this chapter. I sat down to write he told Sherlock to sod off, told me to shut up, and basically said "I've had enough of both you. This is how we're going to do this."_

_I hope that the results were enjoyable. _

_As always, thank you to all my lovely readers, followers, and reviewers. You guys make my day! Please, if you get the chance, leave a review and let me know what you think. _

_New Chapter of Where You Find It will be post tomorrow!_


	4. Simple Equations

It was interesting, John mused, as he lay in bed. The bed, his bed, _their_ bed. Sherlock didn't sleep often. It was amazing to the blogger that he was able to function most of the time. Since the shooting, Sherlock had been "sleeping" with John, which John understood to mean that he would drift off into a healing sleep of the dead, and Sherlock would lie with him and watch over him, _maybe_ drifting off for a brief kip himself, _maybe_.

When they had initially moved in together, John had been astonished by how long Sherlock could go without actually indulging in sleep. It was a quirk (one of many) that John had learned to live with (and was secretly awed by and concerned about). He had always wondered what it would take, short of a tranquilizer, to force Sherlock to rest. _I mean there's only so long that a body can run on nicotine patches, caffeine, and adrenaline before it gives out_. John was a doctor, after all. He would know.

Apparently, Sherlock had reached that point. He was sprawled out across the bed, snoring lightly. His curly mop was rested on John's bare chest, his arm thrown over John's stomach, his right leg tangled with John's. The consulting detective's whole body was usually so tense and in constant motion. Even when he was still, he radiated kinetic energy in such a way that you knew that his mind was operating at a supersonic speed (John swore sometimes that you could _feel_ the heat generated by the brain power), and he was only a second away from launching into the next feverish activity.

By contrast, in sleep, Sherlock was completely boneless, draped across the bed and over John like a rag doll. The alabaster skin, which looked like it was made of cold chiseled marble, was quite warm and his face, slightly flushed, looked peaceful in sleep. There was no analysis happening, no deductions; he was oblivious to his surroundings, and John had never seen him so completely relaxed. It was such a contrast to the waking Sherlock, especially of late, whose mind was going in thousands of directions at once and whose preoccupation with John's health had been obvious in its fanaticism. He looked much younger when he was asleep.

John had his own arm wrapped around the consulting detective's back, tracing his fingers across the skin there, feeling the muscles and the vertebrae. _He really should eat more_; John mentally resolved to smuggle some of Sherlock's "favorite" foods into the house. Perhaps they could set up a reward system of some variety…

Sherlock was taking up most of the bed with his long legs and arms. Trust him to never do anything in a simple or unobtrusive way, even sleep. John didn't really mind. In fact, the blogger smirked slightly; he was not ashamed to admit a sense of pride in the fact that he had driven Sherlock to such extremes of exhaustion. The consulting detective snuffled a bit in his sleep; John stilled and half expected him to wake. The former army-doctor didn't want the peaceful bubble they were presently occupying to pop. It was quiet, tranquil, and they needn't discuss anything about what had happened. They could just be. That would all change when Sherlock opened his eyes. The consulting detective's feverish mind would get to work and he wouldn't let things alone. John wasn't quite ready for that just yet. Luckily, the deeply snoozing detective simply murmured "John" in a voice laced with sleep and rubbed his face against John's chest, shuffling closer to his blogger, and tightening his hold, briefly, around John's waist, before going totally limp again.

Brilliant. Fantastic. Amazing. Remarkable. John was inclined towards utilizing expansive adjectives when it came to describing Sherlock. Granted he frequently balanced them with a healthy dose of more negative epithets like "idiot" "machine" "unfeeling" and "complete dick." _After all,_ he reflected,_ it wouldn't do to let the bastard get away with an inflated sense of self_. But honestly, John was completely genuine in his application of the former terms.

Sherlock was brilliant and amazing, he could be a right git sometimes, not to mention, a completely obtuse idiot about the things that really mattered. Only Sherlock Holmes could tell what you had had for lunch on a Tuesday two weeks ago by the quirk of your left eyebrow, but couldn't realize that you loved him or wanted him until you literally were forced to shake some sense into him.

John had a lot of issues. He freely admitted it (at least to himself, within his own head, if he was feeling particularly inclined to do so). He had an alcoholic sibling with whom he was on shaky terms. He had PTSD, suffered from a psychosomatic war wound. He had invaded a country in the Middle East, for goodness' sake. He took up digs with a complete stranger who celebrated serial murders like they were a national holiday as his only commendation. He was drawn to danger. He had a tendency to shoot anyone that threatened to harm Sherlock or jump in front of anything that was aimed for him. He _completely_ loved the world's only consulting detective (the relative strength or weakness of this quality, and it was an inherent personality trait, was up for debate. John was relatively disposed, in his postprandial state with a slumbering Sherlock twined around him, to elect the former).

_It's kind of a miracle_, John speculated, as he ran a hand through Sherlock's hair and watched the sleeping detective reflexively smile. He wouldn't have believed two years ago that this would ever be a situation in which he would find himself. John's face briefly lost the grin that seemed pasted there, as he considered the fact that a year ago he certainly wouldn't have even dared to dream that he would be lying here like this. Sherlock had been "dead;" John had been alone and full of regret. He briefly tightened his hold on Sherlock's back and ran his hand through his own hair for a second.

Maybe that was why he had been on such a mission yesterday. Why keep wasting time? The fact that he had almost died a month ago was probably a contributing factor.

Everything had seemed so clear when he had come home from the hospital. Sherlock was so raw, John was so ready. _He loves me; I love him, simple as pie, right?_ John rolled his eyes, _Of course not. Why would __anything__ be simple with Sherlock_? _At least he hadn't gone completely "sociopath" robotic_, and John was seriously concerned that that was what would happen. He had realized that Sherlock felt a great deal, so much, in fact, that it was startling. However, John had also deduced that the consulting detective _hated_ emotions, didn't much know what do with them, and consequently endeavored to repress the more "human" aspects of himself. He seemed to have reached a point, with John at least, where that was no longer possible. So, instead, he opted for avoidance: leaving the flat unexpectedly, staring at John with fixed worry, making bizarre lists, leaving John behind when he went to crime scenes. It had taken John a bit of time to realize that the intense worry that Sherlock was feeling was not dissipating. It was, if anything, increasing with time. It was also _annoying_. Because one of John's issues was the fear that Sherlock would leave again (he could not survive that twice), and Sherlock seemed to think that leaving John (even if only behind) was the one way to alleviate his fear for John's health.

Enough was enough. John had had it with the anxiety and the faulty logic (_is this how annoyed Sherlock was with illogical people every day? God, no wonder he's so bloody irritable all the time_). John had meant to have it out. Talk some sense into the bleeding moron. Make him confront his damned feelings. John had also just been ready to fight. There was so much tension and unease in 221B Baker Street. The air was thick with it every day. The so close and yet so far nature of things was driving him mad. Completely and utterly mad.

So he had dragged Sherlock home and started off yelling, unwilling to let Sherlock get a word in edgewise. Amazingly, Sherlock had let him carry on, looking completely stricken and lost, and well…John couldn't take it anymore. He hadn't intended things to go so far when he had crashed his mouth against Sherlock's, hard enough to bruise, in order to shut him up (_okay, maybe that had been something he'd been intending for at least a month…the circumstances were just not quite what he had imagined what with all the shouting and what not_).

John wasn't sure what he had expected. Rejection? Another "no, John, stay away from me" or "no, John, you might hurt yourself" both of which would have caused the blogger to fairly lose his mind with anger in that moment, and from which their relationship would not recover. Instead, after a second of shock and hesitation (John was always pleased when he could surprise the bleeding know it all), Sherlock had latched onto John like he were the only real thing in the world. He seemed, if anything, more fervent than John would have imagined, and the blogger responded in kind. Sherlock had pulled his jumper over his head. John had fairly ripped the damned tight shirt off of Sherlock's torso. Grabbing, kissing, biting, sucking, pushing, pulling, coming together. Hostility, tension, anger, tenderness, compassion. Sweat, hair pulling, skin rubbing, chaffing, exploring. They had come together desperately, finally. And now, hours later, Sherlock lay asleep, and John, still filled with adrenaline, stared at him. Lying in bed with Sherlock, he was struck with wonder at the situation.

He wanted Sherlock. Sherlock wanted him. He loved Sherlock and Sherlock loved him. It was an easy equation. It didn't take a genius to work it out. Now, it was up to Sherlock now to do some simple math.

* * *

><p><em>AN:<em>

_Welcome (finally) to Chapter 4! What did you think? Was it at all worth the wait?_

_I must say that things got derailed by three factors: 1. I was sick and it rather upset my writing schedule. 2. My current priority is Where You Find It, which had dibs on first story to be written. 3. I was in a state of angst over this chapter, what to include, what to leave out, whether I was I was being too introspective, etc. _

_Anyway, I am sorry for the delay. I hope that you enjoyed. I would LOVE to hear your thoughts. So, please, take the time to leave a review.  
><em>

_Thank you to all of you wonderful people for reading, reviewing, following, and favoriting this story. Means the world to me. I especially appreciate your patience. _


	5. Past Curfew

Gregory Lestrade was anxious. Five seconds away from lighting up a cigarette despite having given up the habit three years ago anxious. Snapping at the forensics interns anxious. Pacing around the flat half the night and not getting much sleep anxious. Really wishing that Mycroft was home from his impromptu trip to the Falkland Islands ("It really can't be helped, considering the current climate, Gregory. If you want something done right…") anxious. Foot tapping, finger ticking, hair ruffling, unwitting pencil snapping anxious.

Why was Greg so upset you may wonder? Well, the answer to that question would be threefold.

One: Yesterday John Watson had looked like he was on the verge of having an actual heart-attack when he had stormed onto the crime scene. Seriously, with his flushed face, sweaty forehead, gasping breath, and wide, crazy eyes, he had looked like he needed to sit down and breathe or get an EKG stat. Not the way you wanted to see your partner's younger brother's flatmate (Greg really didn't think any of those labels could even _begin_ to describe his own relationship with Sherlock or Sherlock's relationship with John or John's with Sherlock. And that was before you added Mycroft into the equation. The titles were wholly inaccurate descriptors, but, for the sake of time, energy, and edginess, Greg didn't worry that thought too much). He had other things to be concerned with like…

Two: John had basically dragged (an apologetic looking! And silent!) Sherlock FROM a _dead body_ and AWAY from an _unsolved_ case with almost no protest. Honestly, John had nearly run Greg down on the stairs, as he left with Sherlock in tow. It was the young Holmes who had apologized for the abrupt departure. Sherlock had _apologized_. The John/Sherlock role reversal was enough cause for concern in and of itself. What was more worrisome, however, at this juncture, was the puzzling question of how it had even happened. Sherlock was never so docile. If anything, he had been behaving like a crazed mother hen lately. So, watching him coast along in John's wake, completely cowed, worried Greg. Deeply. Of course, it had been a cause for rejoicing among Anderson and his lot (Greg had leveled some choice words at them about that), but the circumstances had been most peculiar. John, at least, would usually offer some sort of explanation for a precipitous departure. Sherlock was typically the one who initiated the nonsensical (or unobvious) dramatic sweep from the location, normally dramatically accompanied by a choice insult or a single seemingly inane word "Pink!" "Tomatoes!" "Custard!" "Pencils, Lestrade, Pencils!"). Not this time. Both John and Sherlock had stalked out stony silence. The only similarity with the standard procedure was that Lestrade had been left feeling terribly confused and shouting "What!" in their general direction without receiving an explanation.

While both Causes for Concern One and Two would have been a highly disconcerting for Greg by virtue of their very deviant nature alone, they were not half as disquieting as the third reason for his anxiety:

Cause for Concern Three: Gregory Lestrade had not heard from either of the boys since yesterday afternoon. Not a peep. _Now that is just bloody bizarre_, Greg ruminated, as he checked his mobile for the eightieth time in the hour. Sherlock texted him frequently, often unnecessarily, definitely excessively. Since John had been at home recuperating, the messages had increased to the point where Greg was awfully tired of them.

Is soup an acceptable food for someone recovering from a gunshot wound?-SH

Do you have a recipe for soup?-SH

The recipe you sent me does not contain precise measurements, Lestrade-SH

Clarify-SH

Lestrade?-SH

This a matter of extreme importance-SH

John would like soup-SH

It is an important element of his recuperation-SH

Are you attempting to stymie John's recovery?-SH

That is exceptionally cruel of you-SH

How am I meant to make something without an accurate description of procedures?-SH

No, Mrs. Hudson cannot make soup.-SH

She is currently indisposed.-SH

At what temperature should it be served?-SH

Do you have an batteries?-SH

How about battery acid?-SH

I am aware that they are not on the ingredient list, Lestrade. Dull.-SH

Will Tescos deliver milk to one's flat?-SH

Tell Mycroft to mind his own business-SH

That was a random sample from a five minute period last Wednesday. Five minutes. Imagine an entire day. If Greg didn't respond promptly enough, Sherlock would call (incessantly), or storm the apartment.

John's messages were more varied, easily relatable, and less persistent:

Please, could you find him a case. He is driving me mad-JW

Do I have you to thank for Sherlock trying to drown me in tea and soup? Thanks a lot, mate-JW

Could you please tell Sherlock that Mycroft is not spying on us-JW

And that staring at someone constantly can get a bit creepy-JW  
>Is Mycroft like this? How do you do it?-JW<p>

Since late yesterday afternoon, Greg hadn't gotten a single message from either of them. Not a bloody one. At first he had been relaxed: an afternoon free, a night off, no need to play twenty questions, texting nursemaid, or relationship guru (_ha!_) to the residents of 221B. Nope, nothing to do but lounge about. That had lasted all of an hour. Then he began to worry about John's pallor, Sherlock's strange behavior, all the danger and chaos that seemed to follow both of them around. His concern had only increased as the hours passed. He had texted both of them multiple times with no responses.

He had finally mentioned the oddity to Mycroft when they had chatted over the phone. The elder Holmes had told him, in no uncertain terms, that he was overreacting ("in an adorably _parental_ way, of course, Gregory."). Mycroft maintained that there was no need to worry, if something had gone terribly awry, he would know. "I do have the entire British Intelligence at my disposal, Gregory," he had soothed. It was true, he had eyes and ears everywhere especially as related to Sherlock. If Mycroft wasn't apprehensive, Greg shouldn't be either. The elder Holmes would know, surely, if there was a cause for alarm. Greg had heaved a sigh and allowed this to comfort and console him.

That his, he permitted it to do so until Mycroft rang him again ten minutes later to tell him, in a voice edged with barely concealed panic, that the covert devices placed at 221B had gone offline last Tuesday (Greg was under the impression that the sorry bugger who had failed to report this in a more timely fashion was about to lose their job if not their life), and Mycroft had no notion what was going on there. In his changed and exceptionally charged mindset, the elder Holmes advocated an immediate stealth operations storming of Baker Street and a reconnaissance mission to locate his errant brother if necessary. _Let it never be said that Mycroft doesn't care for his brother or demonstrate that affection in the most dramatic way possible_. It had then fallen to Greg to be the rational one. They took it in turns to behave that way where Sherlock was concerned. It wouldn't do to have both of them lose their heads completely. So the DI suggested in a comforting, but still very highly troubled, voice that they ought to give John and Sherlock until the morning. If neither of them had heard from the boys by then, Greg would have a look to see what was going on himself. Mycroft grudgingly agreed (he was all for immediate intrusiveness. They had spent the past two years on high alert regarding Sherlock and John, after all).

So Greg had passed the night in a state of extreme unease. He really regretted being the practical one sometimes. _I know Sherlock's a bloody adult. They both are, but_, Greg scratched the back of his head in consternation, _damned if I don't still see him as that crazy lost kid that showed up on my crime scene all those years ago_. For better or worse, Greg often thought of Sherlock as the son that he had never had. He never mentioned that to Sherlock because the consulting detective would probably scoff, and Greg was better at demonstrating this sentiment through his actions rather than his words. It didn't need to be said between them, Sherlock knew. Greg and Mycroft had talked about it many times.

Regardless, Greg had been worried about Sherlock (_When am I ever not?_) and John, whom he very much liked, and in whose life and health he had become invested. The blogger was a good bloke, a kindred spirit (who else was there to commiserate with about living with a Holmes?), and he was a good influence on Sherlock, whether or not either of the idiots would admit it. Honestly, Greg had never seen Sherlock care about anything as much as he cared about John and it was clear that the good doctor felt the same. _The two of them could be bloody slow and stupid about it though_, Greg mused. He and Mycroft had talked about that at length as well. The DI had been especially worried about Sherlock since the shooting: the way that he seemed to completely fall apart, and the intense worry and energy he expended on John. He also had a sneaky suspicion that Sherlock was planning a highly "logical" (_also known as highly __stupid_) way to protect John, who didn't want any part of it. Greg sighed. This was how he spent his evening: thinking thoughts like this in between dosing and checking his phone for missed messages. _It was worse than having a bleeding teenager out past curfew_.

Finally, the morning came. Greg's inbox was still empty. He and Mycroft had agreed on ten as a reasonable hour, so ten it would be. He drank coffee, ate a quick breakfast, rang Mycroft, donned his coat, and drove over to Baker Street. He had been given a spare key. Mycroft thought that waiting for such a contrivance was entirely unnecessary, since he could have made them copies within mere moments of Sherlock taking the flat (or even several weeks before). Greg, however, considered it a privilege that he was granted access to this space by the actual owners. He rather believed it was a mark of trust and he appreciated it as such.

In this roughly seventeen hour period of preoccupation, it never occurred to Greg, for even a split second, what John and Sherlock were actually getting up to at 221B. Neither did it strike him now, as he walked up the stairs to the flat and unlocked the door. Apparently, Sherlock's scathing commentary about the DI's lack of observational skills, though occasionally vastly exaggerated, held true under moments of extreme stress and little sleep because, as he walked quickly through the vacant kitchen and empty sitting room, he failed to notice the popped buttons on the hardwood floor, the discarded jumper on the sofa, the belt tossed over the lamp. Perhaps he did see them, but thought they were merely part of the clutter? It was a messy flat after all. Maybe he noticed but presumed that the objects were part of an ongoing experiment? All right, that would be a _bit_ of a reach. It could be possible that he just assumed they were part of Sherlock's eccentric new filing system? That would potentially explain the belt, but definitely not the trousers, shirtless buttons, or the fact that _John's_ jumper was one of the items in question. Realistically, it was likely that he was so focused on his task that he just failed to fully _notice_ his surroundings.

It was ironic, really. As he walked swiftly to the one room that he had left to check, John's bedroom, with an increasing feeling of panic (_Kidnapping? Hostages? Criminal masterminds? Murder? Where were they?_), it never occurred to Greg that John had taken the advice he had given him over a month ago (and repeatedly since then). "You two need to talk it out and have a good shag," Greg had counseled in the weeks after Sherlock's return to Baker Street. That conversation seemed to have entirely slipped his mind at present. It was not on his radar, and, even if it had been, he would never have guessed that either of the stubborn blighters would have actually _listened _to him, which was why, when he opened the door to the bedroom, his immediate response was to clasp a hand to his eyes, step backwards into the door and shout, "Oh, bloody hell!"

* * *

><p><em>AN:<em>

_Dearest Readers, I do hope that you don't mind that Greg took over this chapter. What can I say? I love the man. Sherlock hijacked a chapter in WYFI so fair is fair. Don't worry, John and Sherlock will be front and center in the next one._

_Until then thank you for reading! Please, leave me a review if you get the chance. _

_Also, for those of you who are reading WYFI, I know that I promised an update today, but this is what came out when I sat down to write. There will be an update of that story quite soon (probably Thursday). Until then. _


	6. Unwrapped Presents and Interruptions

John was drowsing. He had finally fallen asleep and he had fallen hard. It was well into the morning now, but he was oblivious to this fact. The consulting detective sprawled across him was decidedly _not_. Sherlock was wide awake with his chin propped on John's abdomen, staring at _his_ blogger with clear contemplative eyes.

Sherlock was_ alert, _aware, aroused. He had had far more sleep, and therefore far more energy, than was typical (which was saying something considerable), and he knew _exactly_ what he wanted to expend it upon. He believed that it might be best to let John wake up in his own good time. Sherlock would give the man ten minutes. It seemed a reasonable amount. Sherlock waited; John continued dozing. Sherlock tilted his head to the side, searching for signs that the ex-army doctor was returning to consciousness: none were forthcoming.

John was in a deep state of sleep. However, Sherlock magnanimously persisted in his course of consideration for John's continued convalescence, especially considering the strenuous activities that had been enacted the previous evening. Sherlock did not often lament his eidetic memory. Indeed, it had always been something of an asset. Nevertheless he was currently presented with a paradoxical situation. Due to his exceptional recall abilities, Sherlock could evoke in infinite detail the events of the night before (which he had filed securely onto his hard drive for later perusal and analysis). This would typically be a good thing; unfortunately, it did nothing to reinforce his perseverance at the present moment, not a whit.

Sherlock was not a _patient_ man. He waited for very few things and only when that action was required after a detailed analysis of the situation. On this particular morning, his burning anticipation made waiting for John to awaken an exceptionally _trying _endeavor. Sherlock was _bored_ and he wanted action _now_. If John were awake to see the expression written across Sherlock's face and the barely contained eagerness that drew his body taut, he would have compared Sherlock to a small maniacal child on Christmas Eve gazing at John as if he were an unwrapped gift waiting beneath the tree. Sherlock _never_ did believe in waiting for Christmas morning to unwrap his presents (he had deduced what was inside them long before the day arrived and he wanted to _play_).

Sherlock glanced over at the clock on the bedside table. Four minutes and forty-nine seconds had passed since he had made his decision to wait ten minutes. Sherlock smirked-that was sufficient allowance of time. John wouldn't mind. With that justification, Sherlock ran his hand over John's thigh and rubbed his nose against John's navel before gently placing a kiss there. John stirred slightly. Sherlock pressed his mouth against John again, licking slightly, and moving lower. John's eyelids fluttered and he groaned. Sherlock looked up and moved to peer into John's face.

"Joooohhhhhnnnnn," he cooed, as he twined himself a bit more tightly around the blogger and partially crawled, partially slithered closer, "Joooooohhhhhnnnn."

Sherlock moved until his nose was mere millimeters away from brushing John's, evaluating his face freely before and positioning himself so that his mouth was resting against John's right ear.

"John," Sherlock said clearly and quietly his breath stirring John's hair. The blogger was definitely awake: he had just shivered slightly and his heartbeat had increased, judging by the arterial pulse in his throat. The left side of Sherlock's mouth quirked upwards and he nipped at John's ear lobe.

John swallowed, hard; "Hmmm?" he hummed without opening his eyes, though the way that they were closed suggested a conscious effort to keep them that way. _Indicating a desire for playfulness and encouraging seductive endeavors_. Sherlock did enjoy a good challenge.

"Jooooohhhhhhnnnn," Sherlock continued, drawing out the name in an intentionally dramatic fashion, "John? John. John. John." He began punctuating the words with kisses along the column of John's neck, which was still slightly salty with the dried sweat of the night before. John was trying with an increased amount of effort to remain still in a pseudo-sleep.

"Hmmmmm?" he said again, voice rough with grogginess and desire, "What is it?"

Sherlock knew that John, though he enjoyed sleeping a great deal, was the type of person who, once woken, was immediately awake. John was conscious; he needed to fully admit it.

Sherlock began to move his mouth and tongue over John's shoulder, first the unblemished one and then over to the right where a shiny scar resided, a souvenir of his exploits in Afghanistan. John had newer and older scars across his torso and back, Sherlock was aware. He had begun cataloguing them (specifically John's responses to Sherlock's ministrations to these regions…so far the results had been favorable) and surmising their origins, some of which he had personally witnessed, some of which he could only deduct.

John twitched again and fisted his hand in the bed sheet.

"John," Sherlock pronounced firmly, "wake up."

"I _am_ awake, Sherlock," he said, opening his eyes and looking down at the curly head poised just beneath his chin.

Sherlock snapped up quickly until his face was directly mirroring John's. John blinked at the sudden movement, as Sherlock's eyes roved quickly, evaluating every inch of John before meeting his blue orbs again and smiling triumphantly.

"That is good," he purred, and Sherlock's sleep-husky baritone was exceptionally adept at purring, John noted. He rather liked the current velvety tones that were being deployed. Sherlock seemed _exceptionally_ sure of himself in this moment.

"Is it?" the blogger asked, "because I reckon sleep would be preferable. Long night, you know?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "It is _brilliant_, John. _Amazing_. Because I am _bored_."

"You're always bored, Sherlock," the blogger sighed, good natured and teasing, bringing a hand to Sherlock's face, stroking the cheekbone with his thumb, as his other hand rested lightly against the detective's bare hip. Who knew that waking up in bed with Sherlock would put him in such a good mood (well, besides everyone who had ever seen the two of them together)? John wasn't quite sure that he wasn't dreaming (he wondered about the reality of his life with an alarming degree of frequency). However, he was relatively sure that that the detective curled on top of and around him was quite existent. So was the delightfully dangerous expression that he was wearing. The fact that it was the same face that Sherlock wore when presented with serial killers (a sort of frantically energetic and stimulated grin that was intensified by a definitive amount of "I know something you don't know" and "oh, _this_ is going to be _fun_"). This expression was not usually directed at living people; John had to admit that he rather liked this focus being placed entirely on him, it made his breath catch, his lips part, and a pleasant tightening of his stomach.

Sherlock noted the physical responses; his smirk broadened and his eyes gleamed mischievously. Beneath the exceptionally messy curls, he looked like a cat ready to pounce and just barely holding back, waiting for the proper moment. All the dormant kinetic energy that he held while asleep, lying limp across John like some sort of vined plant wrapping around a trellis, was now active, searching for a release, only just checked. You could feel the air vibrating with it; it was a bit hard to breathe.

"That is because the world is primarily _boring_," the consulting detective stated and then paused, smiling, "_You_, however, are _not_," another pause and then, whispered in a commanding tone directly into John's ear, causing the blogger to shiver, "Entertain me, John."

John searched Sherlock's face for a moment and then said quietly but decisively, "Oh, god, yes."

Sherlock beamed and John reached up, twining his fingers through Sherlock's dark, sleep and sex mussed hair, and pulling their mouths together. They both drew back for a second and looked at one another. A thousand thoughts floated between them in that moment. Some sort of decision was reached, a critical point, and then they came together again. Sherlock trailed his hands down John's chest and further. John ran his palms over Sherlock's bare back and grabbed at his arse, bringing him closer. Sherlock bit John's lip, and John, giving as good as he got, grabbed harder. This was _anything_ but tedious. As the two men continued, cocooned in their bed, wrapped around one another, happily ensconced in their own world, they had no notion that Lestrade was, at this very moment, rushing about downstairs.

Under other circumstances, they both would have heard the sounds below (they were currently muffled by the groans above). Sherlock would have been able to deduce Lestrade's presence in less than five seconds (he had lived with the man for a significant period in his youth). However, at this moment the boys had eyes and ears (and hands and mouths and tongues and arms and legs) only for each other. They were _otherwise_ engaged. Therefore the increasingly frantic thuds from the sitting room, Sherlock's bedroom, the kitchen, and the loo were drowned out by their current preoccupations.

"Sher-lock," John grunted, "I—"

And at that precise moment, the bedroom door swung open and there was a loud bang followed by the thunk of what sounded like a human head against a wooden surface accompanied by a strangled shout of "Oh, bloody hell."

Then followed a few moments of extreme awkwardness in which several things happened simultaneously. John whacked his head against Sherlock's with a resounding clack and reverberating ache. Both John and Sherlock attempted to look over at the sources of the noise, becoming viciously entangled in the process. One of Sherlock's very sharp cheekbones made severe contact with John's eye, and John's elbow dug rather strongly into Sherlock's ribs. Sherlock said in a very cutting, surprised, and accusatory voice, "Lestrade!" John concordantly shouted "Oh bloody fucking hell. Jesus fucking Christ. Fuck," as he scrambled to pull the sheet off the floor, cursing whatever gods seemed to hate him so. He covered himself hastily and threw a blanket across Sherlock's lap, since the idiot was still staring at Lestrade as if he had never seen the man before. John felt a swell of (at the moment) fully justified hostility towards the detective inspector. He realized, somewhat belatedly, that that Lestrade had probably been scarred for life. He also realized that he might never hear the end of the "I told you so" chorus that was sure to follow from this extremely unfortunate intrusion...

Lestrade's hand was still clapped firmly across his eyes. Sherlock was glaring. John was torn between incredulity, exasperation, and a strange, mad, immature, hysterical desire to laugh at the absurdity of this entire situation.

"Blimey, I, uh," Lestrade spoke from between his fingers, as he used his other hand to try to find the door.

"This had _better_ be good, Lestrade—" Sherlock began a wintry pronouncement, "Ten serial murders at the very _least_..."

"Fifteen," John corrected vehemently, "At least _fifteen_ people need to have dropped dead under mysterious circumstances. _Really _bloody mysterious, Greg."

Lestrade's grimace transformed into a knowing (and what John considered to be a completely indecent) smirk. "Ah, good morning then, lads?"

_All bloody right for him, isn't it? _John considered resentfully, _No one walked in on __him_ _in the middle of_-but that stream of consciousness generated an unwanted image of Mycroft and Lestrade in bed together, and he cut the thought off completely. _Things that I __never__ want to think about…_

"In point of fact, Lestrade—" Sherlock began superciliously (funny how he always seemed to channel Mycroft when he was displeased. John would laugh about it later).

"I've had better, Greg," John rejoined.

Sherlock's head whipped around to face John with such blinding speed that the blogger felt a small gust of air fan his cheeks. The consulting detective's expression was so wounded that John had to struggle not to burst out chuckling madly, instead he leaned over to kiss Sherlock in what he hoped was a reassuring way before turning back to Greg.

"It was a right side better before _you_ showed up," he raised his eyebrows at Sherlock, who seemed placated, though clearly planning some kind of cruel revenge for Mycroft (it was always Mycroft's fault. John could deal with Greg if he chose to), and smirked back.

"Well, that's lovely, I'll, uh, just be downstairs," Greg had found the door handle and began walking cautiously backward, as if afraid to make any sudden moves, "Making coffee and looking at crime scene photos to soothe my wounded eyes."

Lestrade grinned (a bit cheekily), "You boys just carry on…I was never here."

"Do _not_ call Mycroft!" Sherlock shouted after him, but Lestrade only laughed. Sherlock looked adorably alarmed (to his blogger's eyes, at least) before turning sulky and John chortled as well.

"You really think that there's a chance that the whole of the United Kingdom won't know about this by teatime?" he asked resigned, amused, and exasperated.

Sherlock grinned then, "Only the higher ups: Mycroft, Lestrade, Angelo, the Prime Minister, perhaps the Queen," he waved vaguely, as if none of those prestigious individuals mattered, turning back to John with a solemn and very hungry face, "Now where did we leave off?"

John pinned him to the bed and Sherlock smirked, "Ah, yes."

* * *

><p><em>AN:<em>

_Welcome to Chapter 6! What did you think? I hope that it was enjoyable. Please, if you get the chance, leave a review. They make me infinitely happy and feedback is always welcome._

_The next chapter of Where You Find It will be up on Monday/Tuesday (depending on your geographical location). The next chapter of this should be up on Wednesday/Thursday. _

_Until then, much love! Thank you for reading, following, favoriting, and reviewing. You are all lovely! Infinite jam and jumpers to you all. _


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